In the September 6, 1980 Billboard, LaToya Jackson's first single debuted on the R&B Chart. Produced by Michael, "Night Time Lover" peaked at Number 59. Mother Katherine wasn't thrilled. She preferred the version Michael scrapped after "reconsidering" the song. "Michael's jealous," she told LaToya. "He's scared somebody in the family will be bigger than him, so he had to go back in the studio, make it different, and now it isn't as good." LaToya admits to liking the first take better. Still, she trusted her brother's instincts. She was surprised he was working with her at all. After they were finished recording, Michael confided he resisted initially only "because Joseph wanted me to." LaToya understood: "Nothing more needed to be said."
Michael used his voice in the studio. "Neither he nor I plays the piano expertly," LaToya explains. So, Michael sang the rhythm of instrumentation he wanted: "Dat, da-da-dat, dat, da-da-dat—okay, that's what the drums are going to do, while the bass is going, a-dum, dum, dum, dum, a-dum, dum, dum, dum." LaToya was shocked by his professionalism. "I expected we'd joke around," but Michael addressed her "over the studio intercom, as if talking to a complete stranger." What he produced sounds borrowed, a quick-tempo homage to Nile Rodgers' Chic disco. Musically, Michael's chorus evokes "I Want Your Love." But LaToya's delivery differs from the cool repose that Nile directs with precise phrasing. Chic's ladies want that love coyly, measured over syllables that bounce. They've noticed someone staring from across the dancefloor. They're flirting back melodically. The romance comes from hypnotic a-dum's and Nile's steady strum. LaToya's needs are a little more urgent. The sister who listened only to Frank Sinatra coos just as Michael wants: "Baby, save my soul tonight / I need your lovin' / This is right for me / Your touch is strong, you see / Can I hold on and be your night time lover?" That grip fills a hole.
Earlier that year, Michael's disappointment created another one. At the Grammy's, Michael won "Best R&B Vocal Performance—Male," the only nomination Off the Wall generated. "My family thought I was going crazy," Michael remembered, "because I was weeping so much." Michael didn't want to be relegated to R&B awards. That night, Dionne Warwick won for "Best Pop Vocal Performance—Female" and Donna Summer won for "Best Rock Vocal Performance—Female." He felt slighted by the industry, disconnected from everyday life. Working on Off the Wall compounded the isolation he carried already: "I had very few close friends at the time and felt very isolated. I was so lonely that I used to walk through my neighborhood hoping I'd run into somebody." According to LaToya, Michael's "an extremely sensitive soul, like Mother." He channeled his vulnerability then into "She's Out of My Life." He cried at the end of each take. After several tries, producer Quincy Jones relented and left the sobs in the mix. In Moonwalk, Michael explains the ballad's "about knowing that the barriers that have separated me from others are temptingly low and seemingly easy to jump over and yet they remain standing while what I really desire disappears from my sight."
"She's Out of My Life" vanished from Billboard's R&B Chart nine weeks before LaToya's "Lover" entrée. Michael's "Life" fared just slightly better, peaking at Number 43. But it shot up the Hot 100. With the ballad he thought "too personal," Michael became the first to have four Top 10 singles from one album. "It's a start," he offered about the accomplishment. He saw this last Wall single as a metaphor. The lryics admit the young man "took her for granted" and acted "so cavalier." But in Moonwalk, the song illustrates his troubles dating: "Something always seems to get in the way." Namely, his suitors pry: "The things I share with millions of people aren't the sort of things you share with one." Offstage, Michael prefers to hold his own despair close: "I believe I'm one of the loneliest people in the world." He hid his anguish so well then, his mother didn't know about it until she read his autobiography. "I do recall Michael's having a difficult time making friends his own age," she adds. "He had tried, but a couple of boys had been nasty to him—out of jealousy, Michael thought."
Michael had another chance to show his reserve. Six days after the Grammy's, brother Randy almost killed himself wrecking his Mercedes 450SL. His legs were shredded. His pelvis was cracked. Before the Jacksons arrived at the hospital, Randy nearly died again. A nurse gave him, not the other man in the room, a methodone shot. After the doctors started his heart again, they thought they might have to amputate. A policeman told LaToya and Michael he was shocked Randy was still alive, let alone conscious. They could hear Randy moan, "I'm in so much pain." Michael took his sister aside: "LaToya, don't say one word; don't show any emotion." She gasped when she saw Randy. She remembers how "Michael, exasperated, led me out by the arm and tried comforting me."
There were other gasps on Thursday, September 6, 2001 at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. Boy-banders 'N Sync just bounced through "Pop" for MTV's annual Video Music Awards bash. The group's video would win four, including the fan-voted "Viewer's Choice" award. After shoulder shimmies and gee-whiz pelvic grinds, they returned center stage, where a larger-than-life Etch-A-Sketch had descended. Static interrupted their song's electronic pulse. On the board were the words "King of Pop." Then, a familiar profile drew itself. The Etch-A-Sketch lifted for Michael to bound out of light and smoke. The beat resumed for 40 seconds of Michael poplocking. Accompanying him was Justin Timberlake beat-boxing.
It was either an inter-generational romp or a vain attempt to demonstrate Michael's continued relevance. The New York Times' Jon Pareles saw the latter when Michael reprised a similar matching with Justin's then-girlfriend Britney Spears. The two dueted "The Way You Make Me Feel" the next night, for the first of his 30th Anniversary concerts. At Madison Square Garden, Jon Pareles saw desperation. Michael "looked not like the song's smitten suitor, but a stalker hoping her popularity might rub off on him." At the Opera House, Michael blew kisses to the audience for longer than he danced. He posed with the bottle of pop Justin held to introduce the number. Michael didn't have any of Justin's irony.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
September 5th
On Wednesday, September 5, 1984, Frank Dileo and Norman Winter held a press conference at a West Hollywood sound studio. Norman introduced "what may be an unprecedented move." He read first: "Superstar Michael Jackson today instructed [us] to 'once and for all set the record straight.'" Michael's publicist explained that "the potential risk of reacting to ... unfounded rumors" could no longer silence him. Then, Michael's manager steps to the podium to read his client's response. Once done, he retreats to a control booth. Reporters belt, "Hold on! Frank, come on! Why isn't Michael here himself? What's going on, really?" Norman explains that Michael's upset by reports of his alleged homosexuality: "The fact that they say he's gay is completely ridiculous. If little girls want to grow up and marry Michael, now they know they've got a chance." Norman's comments referred to hundreds of fan letters begging Michael to come out, heterosexually. Michael's statement never mentions homosexuality directly. He starts with, "No! I've never taken hormones to maintain my high voice." He denies he's surgically altered either his eyes or cheekbones. There's no mention of his nose. Finally, he proclaims, "I plan to get married and have a family. Any statements to the contrary are simply untrue."
Five years earlier, Michael confronted a reporter himself: "I am not homo. Not at all. ... I'm not going to have a nervous breakdown because people think I like having sex with men. I don't and that's that. If I let this get to me, it will only show how cheap I am. I'm sure I must have fans who are gay, and I don't mind that. That's their life and this is mine. You can print that." Then, he seemed genuinely dumbfounded that anyone would believe the rumor: "Is it my voice? Is it because I have this soft voice? All of us in the family have soft voices." Michael's vocal coach Seth Riggs, who started with him in 1978, came to his employer's defense before the news conference. Seth's support sounded like a talking point: "We're all fed up with the lies and nonsense about this boy we love so much. Michael is different. ... He's not of this world." When Seth debunked the hormone rumors, he let slip just how mundanely Michael speaks. "He isn't naturally falsetto," he resolved. "His voice is as low as yours or mine. Natural, male, husky. But he doesn't like it. He calls it his 'frog' voice, so for personal reasons, after I had taught him to reach that level and maintain it, he decided to stick with it. But it's just a technique—a trick."
The Wiz was full of them. Michael found everything about filmmaking magical, but he loved his getup. He explains in Moonwalk: "My complexion was still a mess during the filming ... so I found myself really enjoying the makeup. ... I enjoyed having the stuff put on my face. When I was transformed into the Scarecrow, it was the most wonderful thing in the world. I got to be somebody else and escape through my character." Plus, for the first time, Michael lived away from his parents in a New York apartment with sister LaToya. When not on set with Michael, LaToya hung out with singer Stephanie Mills and Diana Ross' younger brother Chico. At night, they'd go to Studio 54, what LaToya called "the hippest night spot." It was just a few blocks away from their Sutton Place apartment.
On several trips, Liza Minelli chaperoned. She made sure they were ushered by owner Steve Rubell into the sanctum sanctorum, the VIP basement. Author Truman Capote remembers watching Michael riveted by a man and woman having sex in the shadows. "I sort of expected him to be absolutely shocked," he reasoned. "But he seemed to be studying them like they were mating panda bears in the zoo." Most others there assumed Michael's sexual orientation. "Of course we thought he was gay—or at least bi," remembered one the shirtless bartenders Rubell handpicked. "If he liked men, that news wasn't for public consumption." Similarly, biographer Randy Taraborrelli defends Michael's public actions, but not the possibility of his desire: "Michael Jackson would never allow himself to have homosexual relationships, even if he did have feelings for other men. He is much too puritanical, a result of his religious background." Sister Rebbie reiterated the family's investment in Jehovah's Witness teachings: "Anyone who turned out to be homosexual would be disfellowshiped, cut off right away."
The elders were already disturbed by his "Thriller" video and suggestive dancing. They threatened to disfellowship him if he didn't destroy it. Panicked, Michael sought his lawyer John Branca's counsel. John knew the video's commercial appeal and suggested a disclaimer. Before the video started, there now appeared this message: "Due to my personal convictions, I wish to stress that this film in no way endorses a belief in the occult—Michael Jackson." On set, the star was equally inspired to assert his interest in women. His video girlfriend Ola Ray remembered Michael talking a lot about Brooke Shields between takes. Then, when "a gay guy and his friend came onto the set," Michael dismissed them. "Look at him, he's got his boyfriend with him." Ola concluded that Michael was "a space person" but noted that Marlon Brando's long-haired son Miko was around a lot: "They seemed to be best friends."
Bob Michaelson also noticed Michael's company: "On the road, in the studio, he always had some good-looking guy with him, usually somebody between 17 and, say, 20. Never a woman. Never." One of Bob's failed business endeavors with Michael was a clothing line inspired by his video outfits. Michael never lost money on Bob's ideas. Bob admits he fell for the shrewd business tactics: "Like everyone else, I was caught up in Michaelmania—like a real idiot." Bob confided these details to Christopher Andersen for his Michael Jackson Unauthorized. People who speak on the record about Michael are often disgruntled. The closer to the Gloved One, the less people speak freely. Nonetheless, Bob explains that "all the people aroudn Michael thought he was gay, no matter what they said publicly. ... But if you asked me or anyone else [in 1984], we would have said it was young men, not kids."
That's what Scott Thorson told The National Enquirer. Michael was in London with Paul McCartney watching cartoons and writing songs for Thriller. Scott was there with his companion Liberace. Scott explains, "I loved Liberace but I was never physically attracted to him. It was a different story with Michael." They'd met in Las Vegas in 1979. But in London, "we were two young men extremely attracted to each other. You could've cut the sexual tension with a knife." Michael wanted Scott to leave Liberace, who later "traded me in for a younger boy" in 1982. Liberace publicly denied he any sexual intimacy but paid a $95,000 settlement when Scott sued him for $113 million. After Liberace died in 1987, Scott wrote a book about his life with and palimony suit against him. Scott spoke with the Enquirer before Michael's 2005 trial. He warned, "if Michael tries to deny what I've said about our homosexual acts in London, I challenge him to take a polygraph. I did!" Another detail wasn't part of that dare. A few years after their London get-together, Scott visited him at the Beverly Hills Four Seasons: "I was shocked when I ... saw a couple of gay porn magazines on his nightstand. The pictures in the magazines looked like young boys."
Five years earlier, Michael confronted a reporter himself: "I am not homo. Not at all. ... I'm not going to have a nervous breakdown because people think I like having sex with men. I don't and that's that. If I let this get to me, it will only show how cheap I am. I'm sure I must have fans who are gay, and I don't mind that. That's their life and this is mine. You can print that." Then, he seemed genuinely dumbfounded that anyone would believe the rumor: "Is it my voice? Is it because I have this soft voice? All of us in the family have soft voices." Michael's vocal coach Seth Riggs, who started with him in 1978, came to his employer's defense before the news conference. Seth's support sounded like a talking point: "We're all fed up with the lies and nonsense about this boy we love so much. Michael is different. ... He's not of this world." When Seth debunked the hormone rumors, he let slip just how mundanely Michael speaks. "He isn't naturally falsetto," he resolved. "His voice is as low as yours or mine. Natural, male, husky. But he doesn't like it. He calls it his 'frog' voice, so for personal reasons, after I had taught him to reach that level and maintain it, he decided to stick with it. But it's just a technique—a trick."
The Wiz was full of them. Michael found everything about filmmaking magical, but he loved his getup. He explains in Moonwalk: "My complexion was still a mess during the filming ... so I found myself really enjoying the makeup. ... I enjoyed having the stuff put on my face. When I was transformed into the Scarecrow, it was the most wonderful thing in the world. I got to be somebody else and escape through my character." Plus, for the first time, Michael lived away from his parents in a New York apartment with sister LaToya. When not on set with Michael, LaToya hung out with singer Stephanie Mills and Diana Ross' younger brother Chico. At night, they'd go to Studio 54, what LaToya called "the hippest night spot." It was just a few blocks away from their Sutton Place apartment.
On several trips, Liza Minelli chaperoned. She made sure they were ushered by owner Steve Rubell into the sanctum sanctorum, the VIP basement. Author Truman Capote remembers watching Michael riveted by a man and woman having sex in the shadows. "I sort of expected him to be absolutely shocked," he reasoned. "But he seemed to be studying them like they were mating panda bears in the zoo." Most others there assumed Michael's sexual orientation. "Of course we thought he was gay—or at least bi," remembered one the shirtless bartenders Rubell handpicked. "If he liked men, that news wasn't for public consumption." Similarly, biographer Randy Taraborrelli defends Michael's public actions, but not the possibility of his desire: "Michael Jackson would never allow himself to have homosexual relationships, even if he did have feelings for other men. He is much too puritanical, a result of his religious background." Sister Rebbie reiterated the family's investment in Jehovah's Witness teachings: "Anyone who turned out to be homosexual would be disfellowshiped, cut off right away."
The elders were already disturbed by his "Thriller" video and suggestive dancing. They threatened to disfellowship him if he didn't destroy it. Panicked, Michael sought his lawyer John Branca's counsel. John knew the video's commercial appeal and suggested a disclaimer. Before the video started, there now appeared this message: "Due to my personal convictions, I wish to stress that this film in no way endorses a belief in the occult—Michael Jackson." On set, the star was equally inspired to assert his interest in women. His video girlfriend Ola Ray remembered Michael talking a lot about Brooke Shields between takes. Then, when "a gay guy and his friend came onto the set," Michael dismissed them. "Look at him, he's got his boyfriend with him." Ola concluded that Michael was "a space person" but noted that Marlon Brando's long-haired son Miko was around a lot: "They seemed to be best friends."
Bob Michaelson also noticed Michael's company: "On the road, in the studio, he always had some good-looking guy with him, usually somebody between 17 and, say, 20. Never a woman. Never." One of Bob's failed business endeavors with Michael was a clothing line inspired by his video outfits. Michael never lost money on Bob's ideas. Bob admits he fell for the shrewd business tactics: "Like everyone else, I was caught up in Michaelmania—like a real idiot." Bob confided these details to Christopher Andersen for his Michael Jackson Unauthorized. People who speak on the record about Michael are often disgruntled. The closer to the Gloved One, the less people speak freely. Nonetheless, Bob explains that "all the people aroudn Michael thought he was gay, no matter what they said publicly. ... But if you asked me or anyone else [in 1984], we would have said it was young men, not kids."
That's what Scott Thorson told The National Enquirer. Michael was in London with Paul McCartney watching cartoons and writing songs for Thriller. Scott was there with his companion Liberace. Scott explains, "I loved Liberace but I was never physically attracted to him. It was a different story with Michael." They'd met in Las Vegas in 1979. But in London, "we were two young men extremely attracted to each other. You could've cut the sexual tension with a knife." Michael wanted Scott to leave Liberace, who later "traded me in for a younger boy" in 1982. Liberace publicly denied he any sexual intimacy but paid a $95,000 settlement when Scott sued him for $113 million. After Liberace died in 1987, Scott wrote a book about his life with and palimony suit against him. Scott spoke with the Enquirer before Michael's 2005 trial. He warned, "if Michael tries to deny what I've said about our homosexual acts in London, I challenge him to take a polygraph. I did!" Another detail wasn't part of that dare. A few years after their London get-together, Scott visited him at the Beverly Hills Four Seasons: "I was shocked when I ... saw a couple of gay porn magazines on his nightstand. The pictures in the magazines looked like young boys."
Monday, September 04, 2006
September 4th
On Monday, September 4, 1972, "Ben" had not yet won its Golden Globe Award. It just started selling the 1,701,475 copies Motown noted. It was still climbing the Billboard Hot 100 to become Michael's first solo Number One. Most radio stations were too ambivalent about the song to put it in rotation. Its delicate orchestration and plaintive vocal weren't as disturbing as the "friend to call my own" Michael celebrates. That Ben's a killer rat, the title character of a cult horror sequel. Ben squeaks in varying octaves to his best friend, a misfit boy with a heart condition who understands. They plan their assault on mankind from the sewers. Michael saw it countless times. He'd wait through the credits to see "'Ben' sung by Michael Jackson."
Michael already loved rats. Mother Katherine remembers just how much. During a family dinner at a Los Angeles restaurant, she watched Michael sprinkle crumbs into his shirt pocket. Finally, she asked what he was doing: "At that moment a rat poked its head out of Michael's pocket, and I had my answer." According to her, Michael bred them: "I'd see big brown rats scurrying through the ivy and bushes from time to time. After a while, I was surprised to see the rats seemingly change color; some were partially white, a few totally white. Then it dawned on me that Michael was letting his white rats out into the yard, and they were mating with the wild rats." He had 30 in a cage in his bedroom. Sister LaToya remembers stuffing towels under her door at night to keep out the escapees. Michael kept them until he discovered they ate each other.
"Ben" changed the way Michael sang. It gave him the clout to voice his preference. He started recording his leads separately. Later his brothers would sing around them. Often, other anonymous voices were blended into the mix behind him. Still, Michael felt he deserved more respect. He started complaining to Motown mogul Berry Gordy. Producers "won't let me sing the song the way I want to," Michael grumbled. He remained disappointed: "I could have done so much more with what I was given, if they'd let me." He was worried, too, about his newly 14-year-old body changing. LaToya noticed he kept "trying to sing high." His mother knew Michael's more pressing concern: "the shame he felt about his acne." His mood dampened: "Michael was so embarrassed by the bumps on his face that he didn't want to leave the house. When he did, he kept his head down. Even when he talked to me, he couldn't look me in the face." She saw her new son "around the house photographing flowers and dewdrops ... delving into his own world."
"Ben" does, too, with repeat listening. One pass at the ballad's two minutes and 45 seconds doesn't do justice to its precociousness. With a first listen, it's a friendship hymn. Another take brings out its plea: "Ben, the two of us need look no more / We both found what we were looking for." Michael's stress on Ben and We almost stretch them into another syllable. It doesn't express intimacy as much as make its case. After all, his four-legged friend's still searching or retreating—"always running here and there." Ben still feels "not wanted anywhere." Soon, the background sessions singers stand out. Men's voices echo young Michael's. They're almost cloying after Michael confides, "I used to say 'I' and 'me' / Now it's 'us,' now it's 'we.'" By then the strings kick in to complement the dulcet plucks of guitar strings. It's the kind of sentimentality that Angelo Badalamenti perfected for Twin Peaks' score: both familiar and unseemly. Somehow, the 13-year-old in the recording booth knew how to sell the track's hothouse love. There's a solemn confidence that the beauty of affection comes from intention, not always actualization.
Shortly after "Ben"'s August release, Michael spies a teenage fan backstage. He and his brothers just played the Forum in Inglewood, California, 20 miles South from their new Encino home. She's dressed in high-waisted red slacks and a matching tube top decorated with home-made Jackson 5 buttons. J-5 logos dangle from her ears. Rhonda had all of their records. She couldn't believe she had front row seats, or that Jackie Jackson was really looking at her. Michael saw her back and braided hair. Sensing someone, she turned around to find "a cute little guy. He had big teeth, a flat, wide nose, a perfectly combed natural ... like any pretty 14-year-old black boy you'd find in the neighborhood somewhere." Michael noticed the piece of paper in her hands and warned, "I don't think you should meet him." Rhonda wondered if Michael understood what was on the note. "My brothers, sometimes they don't treat girls too good," he explained. "Don't go."
Rhonda had left her boyfriend and her sister. Now she was taking a cab to an apartment building in Encino. Jackie was inside wearing briefs and gym socks. She was struck by his "high speaking voice, which was such a contrast to his masculine features." He thanked her: "We could never make it without fans like you." When she left, a white limo arrived. Michael and Marlon bounded out. Onstage that night, Marlon played the congas for one of his first appearances as the sixth Jackson 5. Now he went in to find his brother. Michael looked at Rhonda with disappointment: "Did you just have sex with my brother?" Rhonda cried. "He [had] the saddest, most understanding eyes," she remembered. "Don't ever do that again, OK?" he worried. "Are you going to be all right?" She took his seat and rolled up the window. "By now, I was really sobbing. Then I noticed that Michael had tears in his eyes, too." As she was driven away, Rhonda "looked out the back window and the last thing I saw was Michael Jackson standing there waving good-bye to me."
Michael already loved rats. Mother Katherine remembers just how much. During a family dinner at a Los Angeles restaurant, she watched Michael sprinkle crumbs into his shirt pocket. Finally, she asked what he was doing: "At that moment a rat poked its head out of Michael's pocket, and I had my answer." According to her, Michael bred them: "I'd see big brown rats scurrying through the ivy and bushes from time to time. After a while, I was surprised to see the rats seemingly change color; some were partially white, a few totally white. Then it dawned on me that Michael was letting his white rats out into the yard, and they were mating with the wild rats." He had 30 in a cage in his bedroom. Sister LaToya remembers stuffing towels under her door at night to keep out the escapees. Michael kept them until he discovered they ate each other.
"Ben" changed the way Michael sang. It gave him the clout to voice his preference. He started recording his leads separately. Later his brothers would sing around them. Often, other anonymous voices were blended into the mix behind him. Still, Michael felt he deserved more respect. He started complaining to Motown mogul Berry Gordy. Producers "won't let me sing the song the way I want to," Michael grumbled. He remained disappointed: "I could have done so much more with what I was given, if they'd let me." He was worried, too, about his newly 14-year-old body changing. LaToya noticed he kept "trying to sing high." His mother knew Michael's more pressing concern: "the shame he felt about his acne." His mood dampened: "Michael was so embarrassed by the bumps on his face that he didn't want to leave the house. When he did, he kept his head down. Even when he talked to me, he couldn't look me in the face." She saw her new son "around the house photographing flowers and dewdrops ... delving into his own world."
"Ben" does, too, with repeat listening. One pass at the ballad's two minutes and 45 seconds doesn't do justice to its precociousness. With a first listen, it's a friendship hymn. Another take brings out its plea: "Ben, the two of us need look no more / We both found what we were looking for." Michael's stress on Ben and We almost stretch them into another syllable. It doesn't express intimacy as much as make its case. After all, his four-legged friend's still searching or retreating—"always running here and there." Ben still feels "not wanted anywhere." Soon, the background sessions singers stand out. Men's voices echo young Michael's. They're almost cloying after Michael confides, "I used to say 'I' and 'me' / Now it's 'us,' now it's 'we.'" By then the strings kick in to complement the dulcet plucks of guitar strings. It's the kind of sentimentality that Angelo Badalamenti perfected for Twin Peaks' score: both familiar and unseemly. Somehow, the 13-year-old in the recording booth knew how to sell the track's hothouse love. There's a solemn confidence that the beauty of affection comes from intention, not always actualization.
Shortly after "Ben"'s August release, Michael spies a teenage fan backstage. He and his brothers just played the Forum in Inglewood, California, 20 miles South from their new Encino home. She's dressed in high-waisted red slacks and a matching tube top decorated with home-made Jackson 5 buttons. J-5 logos dangle from her ears. Rhonda had all of their records. She couldn't believe she had front row seats, or that Jackie Jackson was really looking at her. Michael saw her back and braided hair. Sensing someone, she turned around to find "a cute little guy. He had big teeth, a flat, wide nose, a perfectly combed natural ... like any pretty 14-year-old black boy you'd find in the neighborhood somewhere." Michael noticed the piece of paper in her hands and warned, "I don't think you should meet him." Rhonda wondered if Michael understood what was on the note. "My brothers, sometimes they don't treat girls too good," he explained. "Don't go."
Rhonda had left her boyfriend and her sister. Now she was taking a cab to an apartment building in Encino. Jackie was inside wearing briefs and gym socks. She was struck by his "high speaking voice, which was such a contrast to his masculine features." He thanked her: "We could never make it without fans like you." When she left, a white limo arrived. Michael and Marlon bounded out. Onstage that night, Marlon played the congas for one of his first appearances as the sixth Jackson 5. Now he went in to find his brother. Michael looked at Rhonda with disappointment: "Did you just have sex with my brother?" Rhonda cried. "He [had] the saddest, most understanding eyes," she remembered. "Don't ever do that again, OK?" he worried. "Are you going to be all right?" She took his seat and rolled up the window. "By now, I was really sobbing. Then I noticed that Michael had tears in his eyes, too." As she was driven away, Rhonda "looked out the back window and the last thing I saw was Michael Jackson standing there waving good-bye to me."
Sunday, September 03, 2006
September 3rd
By Monday, September 3, 2001, radio was behind "You Rock My World." Later that week, it would debut at Number 34 on Billboard's Hot 100 from airplay alone. Entertainment Weekly found that response to "the formulaic R&B grinder ... less than overwhelming." Its mechanical melody is certainly reserved. Choruses of Michael ooze over percussion programmed so crisply it could bounce quarters. Finger snaps prop a gooey bass line. It's another approach to "The Way You Make Me Feel," but here his lead's deeper, slower, distracted even. Michael's familiar gasps start off a come-on so blasé they anticipate The Game, Neil Strauss' pick-up manipulation manual. Disinterest draws them in. So, Michael doesn't break a sweat until he's three minutes in. Even then, he seems more entranced by his own harmonizing than the PYT he's crooning to. Near the end, his exclamatory "yeah" sounds teleported from "Remember the Time."
In four days, Michael applied the same strategy at Madison Square Garden. On the first and more-troubled of a two-night extravaganza, he took the stage two hours into the show. Once there, some complained, he danced and sang like a world-class Michael impersonator. Really, technical difficulties set the tone for this five-plus-hour installment of "Michael Jackson 30th Anniversary Celebration: The Solo Years." A late start and long pauses between celebrity tribute splashes made the night's star seem indifferent or cocky. For Michael, nostalgia's always a dicey celebration. Fans want the "Billie Jean" moonwalk. Critics complain he's resting on his laurels. Someone with a reputation for deliberate precision can't accommodate false steps. Every gesture around him gathers meaning. That night, one upstaged him. In between acts, Marlon Brando monologued from a leather couch. The Oscar winner introduced himself as a "fat fuck" and admonished the audience. "While you're wondering who that old fart is sitting there," Brando meandered, "there were hundreds if not thousands of children hacked to death with a machete, beaten to death by their parents."
This Monday, like most others, Michael did little. Tuesday is his preferred start of the week. Preparations for what some called an evening of megalomania would wait. Perhaps that's why French hornist John Clark scoffed that the first show "was pretty disorganized. We only had a chance to rehearse ... twice before we had to play." Later, in a VIBE magazine interview, Michael claims he had nothing to do with organizing those evenings. He left the line-up to "trust" and to childhood friend and event planner David Gest. For the November publicity for his Anniversary's abridged television special, Michael lists his celebrity confidants for TV Guide. Among them are attendees Liza Minelli (who sang) and Elizabeth Taylor (who watched). Michael, Liza, and Liz all "come from the same planet," he explains. "It's called Capricious Anomaly in the Sea of Space," Michael laughs. "Gee, I can't name it. ... But this is true, and this is not to be taken lightly: People who grew up as child stars have the same thing in common. You're cute, they love you; you go through the awkward stage, they don't accept you anymore. Very few make the transition to adult star. And most of them become self-destructive."
Recorded music invites obsession, seclusion. Repeated listening attunes you to the literal voices in your head. Every intake of breath or melisma distinguishes itself. In public, your headphones plug you into a community of head-nodders unified by their separate worlds. Technology mediates a wily kind of limbo. Or, as Thomas Edison heralds his 1877 phonograph invention intended to fix imperfect stenography, it can "annihilate time and space." A simple wax cylinder could "bottle up for posterity the mere utterance of man." Turn-of-the-last-century entrepreneurs quickly packaged it to savor melodies. Decades before Thriller, penny arcade goers were hypnotized by the worldly disconnect made possible by the sounds filling their ears. Recorded music didn't make live performance obsolete, as some feared. It made the experience of that spectacle all the more human. Watching someone sing a song we know already from wax or digital download exposes the mechanics of memory. What impressed us at first listen accumulates an aura from its own repetition. Seeing any present-tense rendition can jar us into recognizing the very timeliness of the magic we give to that recording. Just like us, records don't live forever. Understanding our collective mortality unsettles the fantasy that replay invites. So, not surprisingly, Entertainment Weekly blames those kind of "déjà-vu-inducing gimmicks" for making Michael's Anniversary shows feel like "posthumous events." Edison's intentions live on.
Michael doesn't need to say anything to perpetuate his mystique. "You Rock My World" producer Rodney Jerkins does a fine job by himself: "Michael is a perfectionist. Oh, my goodness, I couldn't tell you how many sessions we did—so, so many. ... He's the kind of artist who doesn't allow one mistake on his records." When Michael whispers at the song's start "I don't think they're reading for this one," he's right. A Top-10 hit can only pale to any Thriller pinnacle. The lyrics of what some panned then as a "pedestrian love song" work as a parable. With its opening lines, he could be wooing Michael the moonwalker: "My life will never be the same 'cuz girl you came and changed / the way I walked the way I talked, I cannot explain."
When Michael performed the single at the end of the second Anniversary night, he came out in unplanned pants. Very white substitutes fill in for the pair he split during "Beat It." His vocals seem canned until subtle differences become conspicuous. He holds the mic close and waits until the second chorus to strut. Michael pops onto his toes, head down, like the fans will see when the video premieres. The moves update his 27-year-old robot dance with more visual creaks, a play on his older frame. Only fleetingly does Michael acknowledge his bouncy cheerleader dancers behind him in formation. His ad-libs become more impassioned than the record. They culminate with this exasperation: "Do you hear me, man?"
Then come the last 90 seconds that make the first four minutes—if not most of the evening—mere preamble. The crowd erupts when Michael bobs his head to Usher gliding in from stage right. Michael delivers two more "You Rock My World!"’s as a serenade to his acolyte. Michael touches his chest then floats to the left. The two trade robot jolts until Chris Tucker materializes to do Michael’s trademark kick. Usher applauds, “The King of Pop!” Michael falls to the floor. Whether or not it’s planned, he seems genuinely overcome. So does the crowd.
In four days, Michael applied the same strategy at Madison Square Garden. On the first and more-troubled of a two-night extravaganza, he took the stage two hours into the show. Once there, some complained, he danced and sang like a world-class Michael impersonator. Really, technical difficulties set the tone for this five-plus-hour installment of "Michael Jackson 30th Anniversary Celebration: The Solo Years." A late start and long pauses between celebrity tribute splashes made the night's star seem indifferent or cocky. For Michael, nostalgia's always a dicey celebration. Fans want the "Billie Jean" moonwalk. Critics complain he's resting on his laurels. Someone with a reputation for deliberate precision can't accommodate false steps. Every gesture around him gathers meaning. That night, one upstaged him. In between acts, Marlon Brando monologued from a leather couch. The Oscar winner introduced himself as a "fat fuck" and admonished the audience. "While you're wondering who that old fart is sitting there," Brando meandered, "there were hundreds if not thousands of children hacked to death with a machete, beaten to death by their parents."
This Monday, like most others, Michael did little. Tuesday is his preferred start of the week. Preparations for what some called an evening of megalomania would wait. Perhaps that's why French hornist John Clark scoffed that the first show "was pretty disorganized. We only had a chance to rehearse ... twice before we had to play." Later, in a VIBE magazine interview, Michael claims he had nothing to do with organizing those evenings. He left the line-up to "trust" and to childhood friend and event planner David Gest. For the November publicity for his Anniversary's abridged television special, Michael lists his celebrity confidants for TV Guide. Among them are attendees Liza Minelli (who sang) and Elizabeth Taylor (who watched). Michael, Liza, and Liz all "come from the same planet," he explains. "It's called Capricious Anomaly in the Sea of Space," Michael laughs. "Gee, I can't name it. ... But this is true, and this is not to be taken lightly: People who grew up as child stars have the same thing in common. You're cute, they love you; you go through the awkward stage, they don't accept you anymore. Very few make the transition to adult star. And most of them become self-destructive."
Recorded music invites obsession, seclusion. Repeated listening attunes you to the literal voices in your head. Every intake of breath or melisma distinguishes itself. In public, your headphones plug you into a community of head-nodders unified by their separate worlds. Technology mediates a wily kind of limbo. Or, as Thomas Edison heralds his 1877 phonograph invention intended to fix imperfect stenography, it can "annihilate time and space." A simple wax cylinder could "bottle up for posterity the mere utterance of man." Turn-of-the-last-century entrepreneurs quickly packaged it to savor melodies. Decades before Thriller, penny arcade goers were hypnotized by the worldly disconnect made possible by the sounds filling their ears. Recorded music didn't make live performance obsolete, as some feared. It made the experience of that spectacle all the more human. Watching someone sing a song we know already from wax or digital download exposes the mechanics of memory. What impressed us at first listen accumulates an aura from its own repetition. Seeing any present-tense rendition can jar us into recognizing the very timeliness of the magic we give to that recording. Just like us, records don't live forever. Understanding our collective mortality unsettles the fantasy that replay invites. So, not surprisingly, Entertainment Weekly blames those kind of "déjà-vu-inducing gimmicks" for making Michael's Anniversary shows feel like "posthumous events." Edison's intentions live on.
Michael doesn't need to say anything to perpetuate his mystique. "You Rock My World" producer Rodney Jerkins does a fine job by himself: "Michael is a perfectionist. Oh, my goodness, I couldn't tell you how many sessions we did—so, so many. ... He's the kind of artist who doesn't allow one mistake on his records." When Michael whispers at the song's start "I don't think they're reading for this one," he's right. A Top-10 hit can only pale to any Thriller pinnacle. The lyrics of what some panned then as a "pedestrian love song" work as a parable. With its opening lines, he could be wooing Michael the moonwalker: "My life will never be the same 'cuz girl you came and changed / the way I walked the way I talked, I cannot explain."
When Michael performed the single at the end of the second Anniversary night, he came out in unplanned pants. Very white substitutes fill in for the pair he split during "Beat It." His vocals seem canned until subtle differences become conspicuous. He holds the mic close and waits until the second chorus to strut. Michael pops onto his toes, head down, like the fans will see when the video premieres. The moves update his 27-year-old robot dance with more visual creaks, a play on his older frame. Only fleetingly does Michael acknowledge his bouncy cheerleader dancers behind him in formation. His ad-libs become more impassioned than the record. They culminate with this exasperation: "Do you hear me, man?"
Then come the last 90 seconds that make the first four minutes—if not most of the evening—mere preamble. The crowd erupts when Michael bobs his head to Usher gliding in from stage right. Michael delivers two more "You Rock My World!"’s as a serenade to his acolyte. Michael touches his chest then floats to the left. The two trade robot jolts until Chris Tucker materializes to do Michael’s trademark kick. Usher applauds, “The King of Pop!” Michael falls to the floor. Whether or not it’s planned, he seems genuinely overcome. So does the crowd.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
September 2nd
The September 2, 1995 Billboard has "You Are Not Alone" debuting atop the R&B/Hip-Hop Songs and Hot 100 charts. For Michael, it's another record. The single was the first to debut at Number One. It was also a needed boost for the HIStory double-CD it promoted.
That hits and new music combination carried expectations as gargantuan as the Michael statue in its $4 million trailer. HIStory's expected December 1993 release was supposed to cap his pre-August accessibility. Michael's Oprah tête-à-tête in February was to launch what a former Sony executive called "Michael's first comeback." Now, there was another disc of tunes that could only pale to his feats of yore. Some songs aimed to vindicate him after a 1994 out-of-court settlement didn't. On "D.S.," Michael genuflects paranoia. There's a thinly veiled (and rhymed) slap for District Attorney Tom Sneddon when he couples C.I.A. with K.K.K. In HIStory's booklet, Michael's self-portait diplays a young boy and a caption's deceptive question: "Before you judge me, try hard to love me, look within your heart and ask, have you seen my childhood?" Who hasn't? More insinuating is the equation of spectacle with empathy. Clever is its exposure of consumerism's complicity. Most shocking was Michael's one-off expletive riff in a chorus for "Scream": "Stop fucking with me!" Sister Janet took middle-finger duty in the video.
The video for "You Are Not Alone" bares flesh. Michael's a cherubic bathing angel. The water laps where pubic hair should show. His wings extend. He romps naked with then-wife Lisa Marie Presley. Onstage, he sings glamorously solo with a shirt that seems impossible to button. He's facing backwards to show the empty seats behind him. Of course, Michael's solitude remains metaphoric, as the all-important crowd scenes remind us. There, flashes abound when the paparazzi shoots him with aesthetic savagery. Michael consents despondently. He bows but does not shield his head. The fame he stages here seems routine. Missing is the thrill of zealous fans. In Moonwalk, Michael recalls "near hysterical girls" with a certain glee. Sure, he "can testify that it hurts to be mobbed." But there's also pleasure in "a thousand hands grabbing at you." The man who loves horror movies can make his own reel whenever he plans public attention: "I know the fans mean well and I love them for their enthusiasm and support, but crowd scenes are scary."
A genuinely unnerving scene sister LaToya shares in her autobiography. Michael and mother Katherine were in Alabama to visit his grandmother after Thriller broke. One day, he went driving with Bill Bray, who'd worked security since the Jackson 5 days. Bill went to a gas station restroom while Michael browsed its store. Bill returned to Michael crying and bleeding on the floor. The white attendant was kicking and screaming, "I hate all of you!" Bill stopped the attack and any lawsuit. According to LaToya, when the assailant learned who Michael was, "he threatened to kill Michael. Bill convinced us that this person was mad, that the threat was quite serious and that it was better for everyone to drop the action."
Evan Chandler's assault on September 2, 1993 came before 8 a.m. He was struck on the back of his head walking toward his office building's elevator. He defended himself against cameras rolling with his briefcase. His brother Raymond says he had not heard Evan sob since they were kids. Raymond hung up the phone and drove to Los Angeles. They worried about the death threats and "the media frenzy ... that could very well trigger a real lunatic." Raymond remembers the palpable panic: "Were we being paranoid? No, we decided. Paranoia is unreasonable fear."
At 4 p.m., an ex-Neverland employee called because "Michael has to be stopped." She agreed to meet with Evan and Raymond in an hour in the lobby of Warner Records in Burbank. For over two hours, they exchanged hush tones in a small garden across the street. Any passerby inspired conspicuous chit-chat. She told them to seek out Miko Brando, actor Marlon's son, and Norma Staikos, Michael's chief of staff. She warned, "I don't want to stick my neck out if you're going to give up." Evan and Raymond left high-fiving. "Looking back, I've got to laugh," Raymond admits now. "Too many Charlie Chan movies, I guess." Pop culture intoxicates. Two days later, their lead called again to scream "You sold me out!" Police had questioned her that morning. The rolodex she claimed to have never materialized. Raymond never knew how the cops found her so quickly.
That hits and new music combination carried expectations as gargantuan as the Michael statue in its $4 million trailer. HIStory's expected December 1993 release was supposed to cap his pre-August accessibility. Michael's Oprah tête-à-tête in February was to launch what a former Sony executive called "Michael's first comeback." Now, there was another disc of tunes that could only pale to his feats of yore. Some songs aimed to vindicate him after a 1994 out-of-court settlement didn't. On "D.S.," Michael genuflects paranoia. There's a thinly veiled (and rhymed) slap for District Attorney Tom Sneddon when he couples C.I.A. with K.K.K. In HIStory's booklet, Michael's self-portait diplays a young boy and a caption's deceptive question: "Before you judge me, try hard to love me, look within your heart and ask, have you seen my childhood?" Who hasn't? More insinuating is the equation of spectacle with empathy. Clever is its exposure of consumerism's complicity. Most shocking was Michael's one-off expletive riff in a chorus for "Scream": "Stop fucking with me!" Sister Janet took middle-finger duty in the video.
The video for "You Are Not Alone" bares flesh. Michael's a cherubic bathing angel. The water laps where pubic hair should show. His wings extend. He romps naked with then-wife Lisa Marie Presley. Onstage, he sings glamorously solo with a shirt that seems impossible to button. He's facing backwards to show the empty seats behind him. Of course, Michael's solitude remains metaphoric, as the all-important crowd scenes remind us. There, flashes abound when the paparazzi shoots him with aesthetic savagery. Michael consents despondently. He bows but does not shield his head. The fame he stages here seems routine. Missing is the thrill of zealous fans. In Moonwalk, Michael recalls "near hysterical girls" with a certain glee. Sure, he "can testify that it hurts to be mobbed." But there's also pleasure in "a thousand hands grabbing at you." The man who loves horror movies can make his own reel whenever he plans public attention: "I know the fans mean well and I love them for their enthusiasm and support, but crowd scenes are scary."
A genuinely unnerving scene sister LaToya shares in her autobiography. Michael and mother Katherine were in Alabama to visit his grandmother after Thriller broke. One day, he went driving with Bill Bray, who'd worked security since the Jackson 5 days. Bill went to a gas station restroom while Michael browsed its store. Bill returned to Michael crying and bleeding on the floor. The white attendant was kicking and screaming, "I hate all of you!" Bill stopped the attack and any lawsuit. According to LaToya, when the assailant learned who Michael was, "he threatened to kill Michael. Bill convinced us that this person was mad, that the threat was quite serious and that it was better for everyone to drop the action."
Evan Chandler's assault on September 2, 1993 came before 8 a.m. He was struck on the back of his head walking toward his office building's elevator. He defended himself against cameras rolling with his briefcase. His brother Raymond says he had not heard Evan sob since they were kids. Raymond hung up the phone and drove to Los Angeles. They worried about the death threats and "the media frenzy ... that could very well trigger a real lunatic." Raymond remembers the palpable panic: "Were we being paranoid? No, we decided. Paranoia is unreasonable fear."
At 4 p.m., an ex-Neverland employee called because "Michael has to be stopped." She agreed to meet with Evan and Raymond in an hour in the lobby of Warner Records in Burbank. For over two hours, they exchanged hush tones in a small garden across the street. Any passerby inspired conspicuous chit-chat. She told them to seek out Miko Brando, actor Marlon's son, and Norma Staikos, Michael's chief of staff. She warned, "I don't want to stick my neck out if you're going to give up." Evan and Raymond left high-fiving. "Looking back, I've got to laugh," Raymond admits now. "Too many Charlie Chan movies, I guess." Pop culture intoxicates. Two days later, their lead called again to scream "You sold me out!" Police had questioned her that morning. The rolodex she claimed to have never materialized. Raymond never knew how the cops found her so quickly.
Friday, September 01, 2006
September 1st
Gathered in the room were Los Angeles Assistant District Atttorney Lauren Weiss, Court Secretary Patty Watson, and Detective Rosibel Ferrufino. They listened to Jordan Chandler, accompanied now by notoriously aggressive lawyer Gloria Allred. On this Wednesday, September 1, 1993, Jordan repeated his testimony. Two weeks earlier, Jordan had told Detective Ferrufino more than he had anyone. He said Michael used his hands and his mouth. Jordan described Michael's penis, "not circumcised" with "blotchy-pink" patches like a cow. Journalist Victor Gutierrez relates what Jordan told a close friend three years later: "I tried to tell the therapist and the authorities that Michael never made me do anything I didn't want to but the authorities had told me that Michael had seduced me by buying toys and expensive presents. ... I am 16 years old and I know what has happened. I think people are bothered by homosexual relationships but I'm not a homosexual. I just feel an attraction toward Michael and I had sex with him."
By the time Michael's 16, he's had his sixth and last Number One R&B single with The Jackson 5. When they peform that song "Dancing Machine" on Soul Train, Michael debuts his robot dance. He assumes the "space age design" the lyrics admire in an anonymous "sexy lady." The second verse sets up Michael's TV moves, but also serve as his own manifesto: "Rythmatic, acrobatic, she's a dynamite attraction / At the drop of a coin she comes alive, yeah / She knows what she's doing, she's super bad, now / She's here to really blow your mind." Michael delivers the lines, throws his head back to the beat, then spins twice. His arms wobble like there's a short-circuit somewhere. His feet twitch right to left, but Michael glides around. His brothers stop their routine to point as if it's a surprise. Michael's shoulders and pelvis sway in time as he returns to the mic. His blank pose gives way to a broad smile.
When Michael left Singapore's National Stadium on September 1, 1993, the dawn spread across Los Angeles. Jordan was not yet apprehensive while waiting to speak with Assistant District Atttorney Weiss. According to Victor Gutierrez, Jordan was often unsettled these days. There were journalists camped outside his house, and the mandatory tests for gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, and HIV. Jordan felt prodded, much like he did on the morning of July 16th. That day, with anesthesiologist Mark Torbiner's help, Jordan's father Evan pulled an overturned baby tooth. It was making the permanent one underneath come in crooked. Mark sedated Jordan with sodium Amytal for what uncle Raymond Chandler calls a "thirty-second procedure."
Some question why a barbituate known mistakenly as a "truth serum" was used for routine dentistry. U.S. Psychiatrists started conducting intravenously-effected "Amytal interviews" in the 1930s to examine the unconscious, not retrieve repressed memories. Evan used Amytal to bluff. According to Raymond, Evan told Jordan, "I know about the kissing and the jerking off." Victor says the father insisted, "I know about the kisses, the masturbation and oral sex." When he threatened to destroy Michael if Jordan lied, his son said "yes," almost inaudibly. That answer followed the question, "Did Michael touch your penis?"
September 1st ended with Michael back at the Raffles Hotel. He made it through another sold-out Singapore show, delayed two days by his backstage collapse. His MRI's showed no abnormalities. Elizabeth Taylor may or may not have been comforting him that night. Away from the public's view, it's difficult to know just how Michael passes the time. One Neverland Ranch staffer claims Michael's relationship with the icon "was hyped as a kind of camouflage." On her extended visits there, she'd dine alone. Michael was in his hideaway he could access through the door in his master bedroom closet. Ex-Neverland security chief Robert Wegner said Michael "could just get in and hide."
Whatever Michael was doing in his Raffles suite, Evan Chandler was in L.A., preparing himself. He was meeting with criminal attorney Arthur Baren. To Baren, Evan made his plea: "I want you to understand, I have no fear of an extortion charge. I have no fear of going to jail. I have one fear only, and that is there's going to be a deal made and I'm not willing to cut a deal." His son was across town, meeting more confidently now with the Assistant District Attorney. "I wasn't so nervous this time," he recalled. "Lauren was really nice. I think she knew I was telling the truth." More than a month later, she thanks Jordan for the interview with a letter: "I just wanted to let you know that the investigation of your case is proceeding full speed ahead. I expect that we will make a filing decision some time early next year. Hope all goes well with you at school and in your personal life. You are a great kid!"
By the time Michael's 16, he's had his sixth and last Number One R&B single with The Jackson 5. When they peform that song "Dancing Machine" on Soul Train, Michael debuts his robot dance. He assumes the "space age design" the lyrics admire in an anonymous "sexy lady." The second verse sets up Michael's TV moves, but also serve as his own manifesto: "Rythmatic, acrobatic, she's a dynamite attraction / At the drop of a coin she comes alive, yeah / She knows what she's doing, she's super bad, now / She's here to really blow your mind." Michael delivers the lines, throws his head back to the beat, then spins twice. His arms wobble like there's a short-circuit somewhere. His feet twitch right to left, but Michael glides around. His brothers stop their routine to point as if it's a surprise. Michael's shoulders and pelvis sway in time as he returns to the mic. His blank pose gives way to a broad smile.
When Michael left Singapore's National Stadium on September 1, 1993, the dawn spread across Los Angeles. Jordan was not yet apprehensive while waiting to speak with Assistant District Atttorney Weiss. According to Victor Gutierrez, Jordan was often unsettled these days. There were journalists camped outside his house, and the mandatory tests for gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, and HIV. Jordan felt prodded, much like he did on the morning of July 16th. That day, with anesthesiologist Mark Torbiner's help, Jordan's father Evan pulled an overturned baby tooth. It was making the permanent one underneath come in crooked. Mark sedated Jordan with sodium Amytal for what uncle Raymond Chandler calls a "thirty-second procedure."
Some question why a barbituate known mistakenly as a "truth serum" was used for routine dentistry. U.S. Psychiatrists started conducting intravenously-effected "Amytal interviews" in the 1930s to examine the unconscious, not retrieve repressed memories. Evan used Amytal to bluff. According to Raymond, Evan told Jordan, "I know about the kissing and the jerking off." Victor says the father insisted, "I know about the kisses, the masturbation and oral sex." When he threatened to destroy Michael if Jordan lied, his son said "yes," almost inaudibly. That answer followed the question, "Did Michael touch your penis?"
September 1st ended with Michael back at the Raffles Hotel. He made it through another sold-out Singapore show, delayed two days by his backstage collapse. His MRI's showed no abnormalities. Elizabeth Taylor may or may not have been comforting him that night. Away from the public's view, it's difficult to know just how Michael passes the time. One Neverland Ranch staffer claims Michael's relationship with the icon "was hyped as a kind of camouflage." On her extended visits there, she'd dine alone. Michael was in his hideaway he could access through the door in his master bedroom closet. Ex-Neverland security chief Robert Wegner said Michael "could just get in and hide."
Whatever Michael was doing in his Raffles suite, Evan Chandler was in L.A., preparing himself. He was meeting with criminal attorney Arthur Baren. To Baren, Evan made his plea: "I want you to understand, I have no fear of an extortion charge. I have no fear of going to jail. I have one fear only, and that is there's going to be a deal made and I'm not willing to cut a deal." His son was across town, meeting more confidently now with the Assistant District Attorney. "I wasn't so nervous this time," he recalled. "Lauren was really nice. I think she knew I was telling the truth." More than a month later, she thanks Jordan for the interview with a letter: "I just wanted to let you know that the investigation of your case is proceeding full speed ahead. I expect that we will make a filing decision some time early next year. Hope all goes well with you at school and in your personal life. You are a great kid!"
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